


An Enemy or Company

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Out Jack, Panic Attacks, Soulmate AU, self deprication, soul marks, worst enemy marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a world where your soulmates and worst enemies are displayed on your wrists, it's hard to forget things are decided for you, it's hard to remember things can change.  Kent bears the same name on both wrists, but it doesn't always mean forever...does it?





	

**You can really make anyone you want of me.  
** Anything you need tonight I'll be,  
Whether you want empathy, animosity  
An enemy or company, call me!  
I can even be nothing if you ask,  
I'll turn invisible for you,  
I'm the bird on your shoulder,  
Singing psalms through the night  
Of holy love. 

The Cardigans~

Kent was fourteen when he woke to a vicious, burning sensation on his right wrist. His soulmate wrist. It didn’t happen to everyone, he knew that, and he also knew it was supposed to be this bad, like someone had taken a knife to flay his arm open, exposed to the world. His parents didn’t have marks on their wrists—it was just as well, and maybe they would some day, but it made their divorce easier to stomach when he knew they weren’t meant to be together.

But in the hazy light of the dawn he stared down at the curling letters just below the heel of his palm which read out, Jack.

His left wrist was blank, and he said a small prayer maybe it would remain that way. He couldn’t, of course, know who Jack was. He _would_ , of course, within twenty-four hours. That was how it worked. He ran his thumb across the aching, sore skin, closed his eyes, and dreamt.

At exactly eleven twenty-three in the morning the following day, Kent laid eyes on black hair, blue eyes, and a set, angry mouth. He was introduced to Jack Zimmermann, and he was determined then. Especially when Jack’s eyes met his.

Kent stole a look at Jack’s wrists and saw his own name there. He nearly cried, but when Jack told him his goal that practise had been a lucky shot, his confidence in what this name meant, wavered. Maybe, he thought, the Universe was wrong. Maybe it was a different Jack.

At sixteen when Jack cornered him in the empty locker room and kissed him, Kent stopped wondering.

At eighteen, when he was staring at his phone, waiting for something—anything—some sign that it was all going to be okay, his left wrist burned. He turned both palms up, and let out a choked sob, which turned into a laugh as he slid to the floor and let his forehead rest on his crooked knees.

Both wrists read the same name.

Twenty minutes later, Kent stood up and walked out to accept his position as a rookie for the Las Vegas Aces.

He didn’t hear from Jack for two years.

*** 

Kent didn’t know why he did shit like this to himself. Why he found Jack’s number, why he sent messages. He didn’t know why he showed up at the Kegster with the cup in his car and a smirk on his face, winning over Jack’s friends with casual hugs and selfies.

Maybe he wanted to earn that fucking name on his wrist. Maybe if it was already going to hurt, might as well make it worth his while.

It didn’t ever _really_ hurt, the absence of Jack in his life. Not until the year Kent showed up to corner Jack in his room. Not until he clutched on to the front of his shirt and heard himself begging for the first time since he was eighteen. Not until Jack’s sleeve was pushed up and there was a new name on Jack’s right wrist.

Eric.

Kent swore at that moment he knew what it felt like to have his heart ripped out. The words tumbled from his lips, covered in blood, hoping he could at least get a parting shot before that part of him was buried alive, left to suffocate under six feet of dirt.

“…I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”

He had never hated himself more, and the worst part about it was, he really did hope that Jack was hurt.

*** 

He’s still shaken from the game. Not because Mashkov came at him—no, he’s used to that. The Aces—and him in particular—have a reputation for a reason and it should probably bother him, but it doesn’t. He thinks maybe it’s because of Jack, who just came out. The press won’t leave him alone about it and every time they say the name, “Zimmermann,” he can feel the aching, searing burn on his right wrist.

It’s a phantom burn, though, he knows that. Because he’ll never forget the way it felt the first time those names appeared.

It’s different this time when he wakes up in the middle of the night, convinced that his wrist is bleeding because he was feeling it again. He scrambles for the light, scrambles for something to put on the wound, because he thought maybe Kit had just decided to shred him—she’s done it before, it doesn’t feel good. But he’s not at home. He’s not with Kit. He’s in fucking Providence getting ready to play the Falconers—getting ready to meet Jack on the ice for the first time since Juniors.

There isn’t blood.

There as a new name.

Where the soft, looping curve of Jack’s name had once sat, there was now shapes Kent couldn’t even begin to recognise, and he stared at it until dawn broke and his eyes were watering.

It takes all of ten seconds on google with a reverse image search to learn that the letters on his wrist are Russian. It should freak him out, but there are so fucking many Russian players in the NHL that on some level it kind of makes sense.

He wants to know what it says, but he’s too scared to google the letters so he texts a picture to Ilya who was traded to the Bruins last season, then shuts his phone off and heads out for his warm ups before they can—hopefully—kick the shit out of Providence.

It’s a near miss.

He wins, but barely, and gets threatened by Mashkov and Jack gives him the cold shoulder and really he thinks his life can’t possibly get any worse. He heads off to the bar to drink away his sorrows because Jack’s all-but erased from his life except the proof on his wrist that they’re nothing more than enemies—and how is he supposed to live with that, knowing what he once had?

Then a large, incredibly large, body slides into the seat next to him and holds up a finger for a pint, and after he takes two large gulps, he turns to Kent and says, “Parse, why you bring personal problems onto ice? You better player than that, I know. Almost hurt goalie. Snowy good guy.”

Kent rubs a hand down his face and tries not to look at Mashkov’s eyes because fuck they’re soft and warm and they actually look concerned about him which is odd because not an hour before they were narrowed and cold and Mashkov was calling him a rat.

“Sometimes life just kicks you in the fucking face, and you just can’t help it,” Kent says. His eyes cut to Mashkov’s wrists but they’re covered by delicately buttoned sleeves. He has a sudden, almost hysterical rush of jealousy for whoever might sit on that wrist because he thinks Mashkov is probably one of the best fucking boyfriends out there.

How could you not be, with a face like that?

“I’m understand that,” Mashkov says after a moment.

Kent scrubs a hand down his face, then tips back half his scotch in one go. When he slams his glass down, he leans back on the stool and laughs. “You know…you…you should have fucking hit me, Tater. I deserved it.”

“I’m say things when angry, fight when angry,” Mashkov says with a shrug. “But not want to cause real damage.”

“Why not?” Kent challenges. “I might have.”

“Because you let game get to you.”

Kent shakes his head, still chuckling that tense, anxious laugh. “No, I let _him_ get to me. Fucking Zimms. Fucking…” He slams his hands on the bar top, but Makshov doesn’t startle. “I knew when I was fucking fourteen, Tater. I woke up in a cold sweat with his name on my wrist. For two years I lived with it, in silence. Then the bastard kisses me and I think that it’s forever. Next thing I know I wake up and the pain’s back and my other wrist is branded, and it’s him. Seven years, Mashkov. Seven years I walked around with his name on both my wrists. How fucked is that?” 

Mashkov lets out a slow breath, but says nothing.

Kent looks at him sideways. “You got an enemy?”

Mashkov sits in a long silence, and just when Kent thinks maybe he went too far, maybe a little too deep, Mashkov unbuttons his left sleeve and pushes it up. The name’s in Russian. Of course it is. “I’m meet him at fifteen. He catch me with other boy, turn me in.” Alexei doesn’t finish his story, doesn’t need to. Kent knows enough about how fucked it is over there. But Mashkov is here now, and alive, and he seems pretty safe. At least from the faceless monsters who would hurt him for being who he is.

“What’s it say?” Kent asks.

“His name Sergei. Not nice boy.”

“No shit,” Kent says. He reaches over, feeling oddly bold, and runs his fingers over the faded writing. “You want me to fly to Russia and kick his ass for you? I’d do it.”

Alexei chuckles, the sound so fucking _fond_ , closing his hand over Kent’s briefly, then pulls away. “I’m not care about him anymore. Happy here. Have good teammates, have good friends. Good drinks. He can rot.”

Kent laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll drink to that.” He lifts his glass, and Alexei taps it and mutters something in Russian, but Kent doesn’t ask him to repeat it. They just finish their drinks.

He’s not drunk. He wishes he was because the kindness in Alexei’s face might be easier to bear if he’s wasted. They get water after that, though because in truth, Kent thinks he’s going to do something he regrets—or well, he wants to anyway— but he’d rather do it sober. At least then he’ll have the memory of when Mashkov didn’t completely hate him.

They call an uber an hour later and by midnight, he’s got Alexei bent over the shitty motel recliner. He’s fucking into him as Alexei is growling shit in Russian which Kent takes to mean ‘Harder’ and ‘Faster’, because he’s rewarded every time he does by Alexei fucking back against him with the same abandon.

When it’s over, Kent doesn’t really know what to do, because for all that he’s been pretty fucking obvious his entire career, he’s never actually gotten off with one of the guys before. It was too much to really deal with, knowing what happened with Jack, so he keeps it to one-night grindr hook-ups to save his ass. And his heart.

When he turns away to roll the condom off and throw it in the bin, Alexei walks off and Kent feels something ugly and twisted in his chest because why would he stick around. He startles though, so much he thinks he might have pulled a muscle in his shoulder, when Alexei comes back with a warm, wet flannel and starts cleaning Kent up. The condom contained most of the mess, but they’re both still sweaty and Kent has Alexei’s semen on his knuckles from when he was jerking him hard and fast.

He swipes it with a tenderness which makes Kent ache all over, a tenderness he never experienced because even with Jack it had been so secret, they’d been so scared of being found out, it was always quick fumbling and filthy, fast hand-jobs in the dark.

This time Alexei pays Kent attention like he’s actually worth something. He drops the flannel but doesn’t drop Kent’s hand, and his lips start at his collarbone, and they work their way down Kent’s arm until they reach the new letters on his wrist.

“This not say Jack,” Alexei murmurs, nosing it.

Kent shakes his head. “Last night it…I woke up with it.” He doesn’t think about how he’s only got a few more hours to meet whoever the fuck it is—though it could easily be a fan from the stands or some guy he signed an autograph for after the game. These things rarely work out like a fairy tale. “Can you read it?”

Alexei places a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the name on the name before he whispers against Kent’s skin, “Da.”

Kent doesn’t ask him to say it though, and Alexei doesn’t give it up. Instead he lets Kent’s wrist go, then cups his face and kisses him soft and slow and so fucking sweet that his toes curl and his heart speeds up and his eyes fill with tears.

He doesn’t cry, because he never fucking cries, but he does dig his fingers into Alexei’s shaggy brown curls and holds them tight. He does drag Alexei back to the bed and it’s stupid and it’s going to goddamn hurt later, but he lets the man hold him until he falls asleep.

*** 

Kent wakes up to a gentle kiss behind his ear and a whisper of, “I’m need to go home, walk dog. You sleep longer?”

Kent murmurs into his pillow and pretends he can’t feel the loss of Alexei’s warmth like a physical wound.

*** 

He goes for a run before he eats, which in retrospect was a bad idea mostly because it’s so damn late in the morning and he doesn’t do well if he doesn’t pay close attention to his blood sugar. But he sweats out most of the alcohol from the night before, and the endorphins make it so sitting at the hotel restaurant with the world’s shittiest breakfast burrito isn’t so fucking lonely.

He remembers belatedly that he left his phone off and hopes if he turns it on, there won’t be an avalanche of shit for the shady way he won that last goal.

His phone dings as it boots up, and there’s a handful of twitter notifications, and a couple from Kit’s IG. And three texts.

Two are from his mom—he’ll deal with those later.

One is from Ilya and it has a split-screen photo, one half with the Russian letters, the second with the phonetic spelling in the English alphabet. ‘Alyosha.’

It’s not a name he recognises and there was a small part of him that feels shredded raw because he stupidly thought that maybe last night—with the kissing and the spooning…

Then again he had that with Zimms too and look where the fuck that got him.

So he tucks his phone away and gets ready to catch his flight.

Just before he’s boarding, he gets a text from an unknown number. **I come by hotel but you already gone. Back to Vegas? (((**

He doesn’t need to ask who it is, just saves the name in his phone under Tater with this weird rock emoji that he thinks kind of looks like a potato because for all that he’s kind of fucked up, he’s also a sentimental piece of shit.

_Sorry man, had to catch my flight. Next time?_

**Next time I come to Vegas, meet Kit, you show me sights. We win big at crepes table.**

He full-on belly laughs, scaring the shit out of some toddler and a few people ahead of him in the boarding queue and should feel bad about it, but doesn’t because Alexei is so fucking endearing. _Yeah, you got it. Also it’s craps._

**That sound dirty. Strange words, you Americans. Safe flight, Kenny.**

Kent only belatedly thinks that for all the fucking and snuggling they did, he never looked over at Alexei’s other wrist.

*** 

He hears from Alexei occasionally, on twitter and sometimes on text. Most of it is mundane. Alexei tells him about his run on the beach, or how on a roadie he convinced Snowy to stop and see the world’s biggest ball of twine with him. Or how when they were in Dallas he drank beer out of a glass shaped like a fucking boot.

He gets an actual selfie for that one.

The Falconers make the playoffs. The Aces don’t. Kent spends his time between coaching Little Aces and trying to redecorate his apartment which feels futile because he’ll be traded some day and have to get rid of all this shit.

But he feels good when he brings home an absurdly expensive cat tree for Kit that’s basically a kitten mansion.

He takes about a dozen photos and texts them all to Alexei who responds with repeated happy emojis and eyeless smiley faces.

Kent feels warm inside. And he doesn’t think about Jack much. Even if he catches sight of him on ESPN kissing his adorable little boyfriend after they secure their victory.

That night Alexei texts Kent a selfie in front of his bathroom mirror after shaving off his playoff beard. **Now you not get beard burn when I kiss you.**

_When are you coming?_

**When is good for you?**

Kent only hesitates a second before he replies. _Yesterday._

Alexei books his ticket that night for the red-eye, sends Kent the info. Kent isn’t ecstatic about the hour but shows up at the airport and lets Alexei kiss him in public. He’s wearing a t-shirt, but notices Alexei still has both arms covered. It makes him sigh. It makes him realise Alexei has someone on his wrist and doesn’t want to show Kent because he’s a good guy and doesn’t want it to hurt so much when he has to tell Kent, “It isn’t you. I’m sorry.”

Kent tries not to think about it as they drive home, and hit up a 24-hour drive thru for the world’s shittiest burgers, but Alexei insists, “Up this late make me hungry.”

“It’s early,” Kent corrects him, but goes because at this point he’s not sure he could tell Alexei no for any reason at all.

“Is late, is early, what it matters, Paroshka?”

Kent blinks at the sudden epithet and he stares, but doesn’t say anything. He just orders Alexei his damn burgers and he gets fries with a chocolate shake and when he dips the fries into it he waits for Alexei to chirp him but instead he just leans over and says, “Oh let me try, is American thing, yes?”

Kent doesn’t love sharing food but there’s something about the familiar way Alexei just reaches over like he owns all of what Kent has—and it feels like it, it really does—that makes him say nothing.

Alexei hums. “Is not best, but not bad.”

“Stoner food,” Kent mumbles. “Stupid high school shit.”

They get home and Kent wonders what’s about to happen because at this point their relationship isn’t much more than physical but Alexei just rummages through Kent’s wardrobe until he finds a t-shirt that’s old and stretched out, and he throws that on, and with that and just boxers, he climbs into bed.

Kent follows, doesn’t bother with a shirt, and he feels radiating warmth over his chest as Alexei holds him tight.

He still doesn’t look down at the name.

*** 

They take turns fucking, getting fucked, sucking each other off, but all the sex kind of feels cursory, like an afterthought to late nights curled up in front of Harry Potter marathons and shitty nineties movies. Alexei—for all his shit English—knows almost every fucking word to Clueless and listening to him say, “I had like four mochaccinos today, I feel like ralphing,” in his accent makes Kent laugh so hard he actually cries.

Alexei pretends to be offended, then blows raspberries on his neck until Kent cries out and smacks him on the shoulder. “Stop it, you _ass_.”

Alexei nuzzles his neck. “I am sorry, I not tease you anymore.”

Later Kent gets up to cook them something to eat—he’s getting better at adulting when it comes to shit like feeding himself and picking out high-quality, grain-free cat food for Kit. He’s throwing chicken and a bunch of chopped veg into a roasting pan when he glances over and sees Alexei perusing his photos.

Kent isn’t exactly sentimental, but he keeps a few of them because it helps to see that he has a life outside of the rink, even if it kind of feels like he’s just going through the motions of one instead of actually living it.

Kent puts the lid on the pot and shoves it into the oven before walking over. Alexei’s finger is tracing over the ornate silver frame which holds a shitty polaroid photo of Kent holding the cup with Kit perched inside it. She was just a tiny kitten at the time, and he’s sure being shoved into a fucking trophy was the moment she loved him least.

“What did you do with cup?” Alexei asks.

Kent laughed. “Mostly took pics of Kit inside it. Ate fruit loops out of it.”

Alexei looks at him, eyebrow raised. “Is breakfast cereal?”

Kent shrugs. “I was hung over so I wasn’t about to do anything else with it.” He waits, then asks, “What about you?”

“I eat borscht.”

Kent stares. “You’re fucking with me.”

Throwing his head back, Alexei laughs and the booming sound shoots right through Kent’s sternum and wraps round his heart. Alexei draws him in and kisses him sweetly. “Yes I am kid. No, I drink beer. Budweiser beer from cup. Feel very American.”

“Oh my god,” Kent groans, right before he’s tackled to the ground and kissed.

He _still_ doesn’t look at Alexei’s wrist.

*** 

The day of Alexei’s departure flight is getting closer and Kent’s heart is getting heavier because any day now Alexei could decide it’s time for him to dedicate the rest of his life to his soulmate and it fucking hurts. They’re on the sofa and Kent’s wearing one of Alexei’s sweaters. It’s so huge on him, it falls past his fingers so he’s just got them bunched up against his palms like giant sweater-paws.

Alexei is flipping through his photos and telling stories about his last trip to Russia. “Have to be careful there, when I visit,” he says quietly, showing a selfie of him and his mum. They look alike. Same hair, same eyes. “She not want me to come sometimes, says, ‘Alyosha, is not safe, why you take risk but…’” Alexei stops because at that moment Kent goes pale and his fingers begin to shake and his entire body is tense. “Kent? What happen? I say wrong thing?”

He tries to swallow and can’t. Everything feels like he’s suddenly trying to walk through quicksand and he finds his fingers through the sweater and grabs Alexei’s right wrist. Alexei tenses, but he doesn’t stop Kent, though Kent is almost screaming internally for someone, god _someone,_ to stop him before it’s too late.

He gets the button undone and then he pushes the sleeve up and he swears for a moment he’s not in his own body because his name is there. It’s faded, like an old tattoo, like it’s been there for years. Like Jack, on his wrist.

Suddenly he slams back into his body, but his face feels numb and his breath is coming in little gasping pants. Alexei is touching the sides of his face with every ounce of hesitation and his voice is a low whisper, “Kenny. Kenny, you…you want I call nine-one-one…?”

Kent swallows and barks a laugh and everything feels kind of off but Alexei’s hands are grounding and he’s gaining control. “I think I just had a panic attack. Fuck.” He would know. He will never forget Jack’s. “You have…you have my fucking name on your wrist, Alexei.”

Alexei looks down, sheepish and sorry, and it’s then Kent understands.

“How long have you known?”

Alexei clears his throat, and his voice is smaller than Kent has ever heard it. It’s not full of regret, just…soft. “Since you first become captain, when Falconers first play Aces. It happen night before, your name appear. I see you on ice next day and I know. You…are so beautiful, but you say nothing to me so I’m thinking not my name.” Alexei then pulls Kent’s sleeve down and brushes his fingers along the writing there, then kisses it like he did so long ago. “Is my name.”

“Alyosha,” Kent says, the word almost like a fucking prayer the way it falls from his lips.

Alexei kisses it again, then again, then moves his hands to cup Kent’s cheeks and draws a kiss out and out.

“Why?” Kent asks when he regains some of his composure. “Why…why didn’t you tell me? You knew.”

“Was waiting,” Alexei says as he pushes his nose up against the side of Kent’s so he can nuzzle their faces together. He’s holding Kent like he never wants to let go and Kent thinks if he does let go, he’ll fall apart completely and no one, _no one,_ will ever be able to put him back together. “Then I see name but you still…not know.”

“You could have told me then,” Kent says. He’s not sure if he would have wanted that.

Alexei huffs a laugh, kisses his cheek. “Want you to fall for me…just me, not name on wrist. I think…people put too much on names.” Alexei’s thumb brushes along Jack’s name now, making Kent’s insides ache. “Make something out of nothing, thinking things can’t change. But they do.”

Kent lets out a wet, angry laugh, because he fucking knows they can. “It used to be Jack’s,” he breathes.

“I know,” Alexei whispers back. Kisses him again.

Kent closes his eyes and lets himself just feel for a minute, lets himself believe that Alexei knew all this time and waited because he wanted to love Kent just for being Kent. Just for…himself and all the fucked up baggage that comes with being Kent Parson.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, decidedly, and pulls back to look into Alexei’s eyes. “I didn’t want to see your wrist because I didn’t want to know you belonged to someone else. Because I already loved you.”

Alexei looks delighted, but laughs and nods. “I’m know this already, Kent. Is why I come.” They fall down together and lay there just existing in each other’s arms.

By the time dinner’s ready they’re…well not quite the way they were before—definitely better—but in a way that doesn’t overwhelm Kent. When they go to bed, they make quiet plans on how to go forward, how to maximise their time off together. They make plans to get a house.

“I’m like west coast beaches,” Alexei says, his voice thick and sleepy as he draws lines along Kent’s back. Kent’s lying on his stomach, half his face mashed into the pillow, his one open eye watching Alexei in the dark. “Is nice there. We can get bicycles. Learn to surf.”

Kent laughs at the mental image and leans in for a kiss because this is his. Alexei is his, and more importantly, Alexei wants to be his. “West coast condo it is. I’m decorating. I’ve seen your crocs, Tater. I don’t trust you with anything fashion related.”

“Comfy shoes, laugh all you want. At least feet not hurt after long day on ice.”

Kent buries his face in Alexei’s neck and mutters, “Oh god, and I’m going to have to be seen in public with you.”

Alexei pushes him back as he kisses him and kisses him. “Is okay,” he says, right up against Kent’s lips, “I make you look even better than you already do.”

Kent closes his eyes and god…god he loves him.

*** 

Exactly six months later, Kent wakes up to a text. **Hey Kenny, saw the tweet. Congrats on everything. I’m really happy for you. Next time you’re out here, give me a call. Maybe we can all get drinks.**

He only takes a second to respond, his heart thumping, his head resting against Alexei’s broad chest listening to his quiet snores. _I’d like that. You seem happy too, Zimms. I’ll hit you up when we’re back in town. Say hi to the Pie Master for me._

**Haha will do.**

There’s a strange sensation on his wrist, and when Kent looks down…his left wrist is blank.


End file.
